


Queen and Country

by plalligator



Series: Things That Might Have Been [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Spoilers-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plalligator/pseuds/plalligator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Smiley issues a warning, because Mycroft is playing a dangerous game.</p>
<p>(Slight spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen and Country

**Author's Note:**

> AU in which George Smiley was Mycroft's mentor and Mycroft succeeded him as head of the Circus. 
> 
> Part of a series of three short fics that are basically my headcanons for the Reichenbach Fall. They go in a before--during--after sequence, with this one being before the Fall. So this one is set when Mycroft is feeding Moriarty information about Sherlock.

It’s a rare day that he even has any time to spare for the Diogenes Club—despite any appearances to the contrary—and even more so in the wake of this massively unsuccessful Moriarty fiasco. This Tuesday afternoon is a rare exception, with a precious hour squeezed in between a lunch with several high-ranking UN ambassadors and a conference with the Prime Minister’s people thanks to his ever-efficient PA.  
  
He doesn't even have time to make it to his designated armchair before he is graciously accosted by one of the club staff, bearing a folded piece of notepaper emblazoned with strikingly familiar handwriting. "Ah," Mycroft thinks, observing the stroke of pen on paper—slightly stilted letters means arthritis is beginning to show, likely he has trouble on rainy days. Notepaper is the club's, but the ink has quite distinctive coloration that marks it as the product of an obscure, old-school European pen and stationery company not likely frequented by men on the inside of sixty-five years of age. Slight grease smear on the corner where he held the paper down while writing, he’s normally quite fastidious in habit so he must have just come from lunch as well. The fact he didn’t stop even to wash his hands means he must have known Mycroft was coming and took pains to ensure he was there before Mycroft. _“ A summons. I see.”_  
  
For moment, he allows a hint of distaste to twist his mouth before nodding in assent.  
  
::  
  
A small, dapper man in a discreet black suit—everything in Diogenes Club is discreet—ushers him to one of the rooms where talking is permitted. That room, ironically, is utterly silent as they enter, the curtains pulled back from the windows to reveal a typical London rain. There's a tea set arranged nearly on the low table. As the black-suit closes the door behind Mycroft, the man standing at the window turns around.  
  
"Hello, Mycroft. I hope I'm not taking you away from something important," George Smiley says.  
  
"No, not at all," says Mycroft smoothly, taking a brief second to mourn the death of his leisure time. Smiley nods, then gestures to the table. “Have you been waiting long?”  
  
Smiley only gives him a brief, amused glance in response to this question.  
  
"Won't you sit down?” he says instead. “I'll pour."  
  
Mycroft, recognized the veiled incitement to sit first, almost laughs. The old George Smiley power tactics—subtle in everything but their effectiveness. It’s Mycroft’s territory, Mycroft is a vital government official and Smiley is just a old man who used to have power, but suddenly Smiley is in control. No bluster, no fuss.  
  
(After all, Mycroft knows very well that the most effective way to hold a meeting with someone is to have them come to you. Yes, he knows that very well indeed.)  
  
He sits, and Smiley remains standing for a bare fraction of a second, not enough to look unnatural, before sinking into the mammoth leather armchair opposite Mycroft.  
  
He doesn’t seem to have aged a day since Mycroft last saw him. He's always had the peculiar but fitting quality where he had looked in his sixties while in his forties and then continued to age at a spectacularly glacial speed. He doesn’t look his eighty years, that’s for certain.  
  
"So," says Smiley pleasantly, pouring the tea. "How are you, Mycroft? How is your mother? Her health is good, I hope."  
  
"Yes," says Mycroft, accepting a cup of tea but only barely touching it to his lips. "She’s doing quite well.”  
  
“And Sherlock?” says Smiley, taking a sip of tea. “He seems to be the center of some attention, as I gather from Peter.”  
  
 _“ Dear Peter,”_ thinks Mycroft. _“ Always loyal.”_  
  
Aloud, he says, with a slight thinning of his mouth covered up by his teacup, “Oh, yes. Sherlock is...flourishing. But how are you, George? Making the most of retirement?”  
  
“Yes, it’s a great deal more permanent than my first retirement. I’m somewhat unaccustomed to it, I suspect. I do sometimes expect to find someone waiting in my living room to come and call me back into service. But somehow that seems unlikely with you in charge of the Circus. You’ve a great deal more sense and intelligence than Percy Alleline ever did.” Smiley shakes his head. “Poor, foolish Percy. What a mess that was.”  
  
There’s a moment of silence, Mycroft simply waiting for the ball to drop and Smiley inscrutably lost in thought.  
  
“Have I ever told you about Bill Haydon and Jim Prideaux?” says Smiley finally.  
  
 _“There we go,”_ Mycroft thinks. George Smiley, on the whole, is about as inclined to be talkative as he is to reminisce about the good old days, which is to say, he’s not. He generally prefers to sit back and let others tell him what he needs to know. Mycroft, therefore, doesn’t say anything, though he does rather wonder what the point of this is. Smiley’s never said anything about the Operation Testify/Tinker Tailor debacle in so many words, but Mycroft’s read the reports. Bill Haydon has been dead for thirty years, and Jim Prideaux died of medical complications—that being a polite way of saying he drank himself to death—more than four years ago.  
  
“They were very close from the start,” Smiley continues, “were young men at school together. You’ll know that, of course. Very close. The iron fist and the iron glove,” he says, with a slightly deprecating half-smile. “Yes. Very close indeed. Rather as close as two people can be. Of course, Bill always believed very strongly in things, under that indifferent front. He was the reason Jim got sent to Czecho in the first place, you know. A betrayal—unintended, but no less potent.” There is, in the unbroken silence, the implications of how Jim Prideaux was crippled, and tortured and lived the rest of his life in what was evidently bleak misery because of Bill Haydon.  
  
“But Bill got it into his mind that he had to make sacrifices, had to put one thing over the other. Had to, in fact, put the cause first.” Smiley’s face has lost any trace of humor, and is an expressionless, stony mask as he looks at Mycroft across the table. “A choice that did not work out advantageously. ”  
  
Two cups of tea cool on the table, steam curling into the air.  
  
::  
  
“Well,” says Smiley, rising and shrugging on his coat. “You’ll have to forgive an old man’s ramblings, Mycroft. I’m afraid I’m probably keeping you from something vital. This James Moriarty business, at least, seems to be causing some trouble. I hope it turns out alright.” He places a hand on the doorknob but doesn’t turn it. “Do take care, Mycroft.”  
  
“You too, George,” says Mycroft, and, after Smiley leaves, he remains sitting there, staring out into space for a long while.


End file.
